A Kiss, Sweet Mother
by Erica North
Summary: Life is short and Death is sweet, leaving little time for the people of Tamriel to dwell on regret, but Marcurio of Cyrodiil has spent the last seven years playing over all the things he could have… no–should have done differently. When a mysterious assassin identical to the woman he loved comes to Riften, he feels the Gods have sent him a rare second chance to right his wrongs.
1. Chapter 1

There was never peace, not even when she closed her eyes. Not even when she slept. Even as a child, every moment was a plague. Her dreams were always nightmares, memories of two little girls clinging to one another amidst the panicked horde of faces already painted in Death's artistic hand.

"Stay together," their mother told them. "No matter what happens, you must always stay together. As long as you're together, you will be safe."

"Mama—" Onóra reached for her hand, clutching her slippery fingers to hold her near. Sobs hitched in her chest, choked her aching throat and made it hard for her to breathe and even harder to plead. "Don't leave us, please."

"I must find your father." Heavy lids of dread lowered over her wide green eyes as she looked away from her daughters. She squeezed her mother's hand tighter, yanking her back to stand with them. "I will come back for you," a liar's promise, and then she tugged her hand away. Ondelan was Nuniel's everything, her soul, her breath, her life, but Onóra knew their father was dead; she'd felt him die the way she felt everything around her die. Her mother just didn't want to believe it.

She lifted one hand each to their faces, staring between the mirrored blessing in front of her. _You are a reflection of the love Ondelan and I share. Double blessed, we were when the Gods gifted you to us._She used to speak those words to them every night before tucking them into bed, before leaning in to brush her soft lips across their brows. In that moment she was saying them with nothing more than her eyes._Double blessed will you be as long as you stay together, my daughters._She knelt to kiss them both one last time.

Anariel didn't cry. Her sister never cried; not even when they watched their mother disappear into the crowd of frightened faces, turning back only once to look upon them for the last time. She was their father's little warrior and had been Onóra's strength since the day they came into the world together. Clinging to Onóra's lifeless body in the womb, it had been her furious cries of life that drew her fleeing soul back into her tiny body. She remembered it; she didn't know how, she just did. From that moment on, Anariel became her protector, her champion. Onóra both loved and hated her for it.

"Don't cry, Onóra," her sister whispered. "Everything will be all right, just as Mother promised. She'll return soon and she'll have father with her. Together we'll all leave this place and go home." There was hope in her bright green eyes, shining and unshed tears she'd never cry, no matter how frightened she was inside.

_Home._ They were never going home again. Their home was ash and ruin. Their father was dead, soon their mother would follow. Everything they'd ever known and loved, their comfort and stability, their hopes and dreams, all of it torn from their desperate, clutching fingers by the Daedra and crushed before their watery eyes.

Outside explosions of battle magic quaked the ground beneath their feet. Terror rippled through the crowd of refugees who'd sought shelter within the tower. Bodies pushed and crushed the two small girls, backing them tighter against the wall until they had no choice but to cling to one another to conserve space.

The way her sister clung gave away Anariel's terror, an emotion she'd always hidden with ease. She was their father's daughter, bold and proud, but even her unyielding strength was starting to falter. Anariel whispered again, "It's all right," but Onóra knew even she didn't believe her own words of comfort anymore.

Things were not all right, would never be all right again. The Daedra were coming for them, coming for them all. The tower would fall with them inside it, crushing them until they were little more than pulpy bone and clotted blood and from some cruel corner Sithis would celebrate, his laughter drawing them all to their end.

Everyone around her was already dead. She only had to look to see it, burned and blackened skin sliding away from their faces until naught was left but cracked and splintered bone, empty, incredulous eye sockets and wide mouths, agape with the terror of their own unexpected demise.

When Onóra blinked, the faces around her were normal again, but she still felt sick. Her stomach trembled and wrenched between painful nerves and nausea. Her head swam, the result of panicked breathing as she gasped for precious air. The reflected lights in the Crystal Tower were too bright; they hurt her stinging eyes, which she couldn't stop blinking no matter how hard she tried. She hated that she couldn't be strong like her sister, hated that she wasn't brave, but Anariel did not see the things Onóra saw. Anariel couldn't see death in everything around her, the flashing glimpses of inescapable doom and darkness everywhere she looked.

"It's coming," Onóra whispered, clutching her twin in her arms as the two of them huddled closer to the wall, hidden behind a host of frantic bodies bracing themselves for the end.

"Shh," Anariel quieted her. "Close your eyes and know that I am with you, little sister. We will be together, always together. Just like Mother said."

Amidst the chaos of the tower's fall, shards and splinters of multi-colored light rained down upon them like some beautiful dream she couldn't stop herself from watching, but in her nightmares the shards always cut her and her sister to ribbons and she woke with a strangled gasp in the darkness, clawing at her ever-seeing eyes to make that wretched vision stop.

Her eyes burned, hot with tears and stinging from the gouge of her own fingers. The night was still, save for the frantic gasp of her own breath, but underneath it she could hear the distant wail of a storm blowing in from the east. She lifted a trembling hand into the raven-black locks of her mussed hair and then dropped back into the feather-stuffed mattress behind her. A frustrated sigh deflated her chest and she curled onto her side, drawing her legs up tight.

No matter where she was, there was no escaping the memory, but since she'd come to Dawnstar the dreams had grown stronger and more frequent, the memories of a time so long ago she should have been able to let go, to forget.

She had to get out of Dawnstar. The place was cursed; a gift of nightmares from the wicked Deadric Prince, Vaermina. Onóra's broken spirit walked the twisted, shadow plane of Quagmire every night she slept and long ago her father had said her waking vision came from the same dark place, but she knew better. She was an instrument of Death, daughter to Sithis and the Night Mother and not even Vaermina could truly touch her soul.

Outside, the wind keened louder, picking up intensity and speed until the shutters rattled. She doubted anyone in Dawnstar would sleep comfortably that night. Not with the dreams, not with the screaming wind. Half the town was mad already; the kind of insanity that always came with lack of sleep, and if someone didn't stand to face Vaermina's challenge soon, everyone in that town would die.

Onóra only had to look at them all to see their deaths anyway, the slow hand of time aging and transforming their faces right before her very eyes until everyone and everything she looked upon seemed to grin back her—a lipless, reaper's smile in the skeletal remains of dwindling dust and bone.

A gift, her mother called it. A curse, her father'd said. Her sister had been the only one who'd never transformed before her, never revealed her death mask to Onóra. For the first one hundred and fifty-eight years of her life, Anariel's face had been the only reflection of her own appearance Onóra could count on. The only time she'd ever seen her own face without the curse, a reflection of what she must surely look like alive, with skin and health and bright green eyes, beautiful black hair and smiling lips.

She only discovered just how identical their reflections had been when her sister finally met with Death, breaking that part of the curse. She'd felt it when it happened; a shift inside herself. A part of her died that day too, and when she'd looked into the glass and seen her own reflection unmarred by death for the first time in her life, she knew Anariel was gone. She didn't know how her sister had died, would probably never know, and though it had been more than fifty years since last they'd spoken, every time she looked upon her own face now, she remembered and she grieved.

She should have been there.

_No matter what happens, you must always stay together._

But they'd separated. Onóra's darkness had finally driven a wedge between them, the unforgiveable acts she committed herself to carrying out in the name of Sithis enough to turn her sister away from her forever. She'd tried to hide it, but they were twins. They'd shared everything. Living quarters, work, friends… a soul.

_As long as you're together, you will be safe_.

Maybe their mother had been right, their separation and distance bringing her sister to her end. Or perhaps, she mused, pulling the blankets up under her chin, nothing their mother ever told them had been true and it had just been Anariel's time. Nevertheless, she missed her sister, still wished things had turned out differently.

Everyone met with Death in the end, everyone except for Onóra. She'd met Him when she was born, had walked beside Him all her life, seeing nothing but the end everywhere she looked. To close her eyes–impossible, to resist His calling a fool's daydream, to carry out His sentence a blessing. His whispers in the dark guided her hand. She was the instrument of Sithis, whether she liked it or not and to kill was the only way to bring peace to the suffering of all those dying faces around her.

To kill was the only way Onóra felt like she herself could live, and all she'd ever wanted was to be alive.

A/N: A Kiss, Sweet Mother moves side by side with the story The Pilgrim's Path, but contains different characters (Marcurio and a new OC,) through another adventure. Occasionally the characters in these stories will cross paths and the events within each story influence events from the other story at times. I hope if you enjoyed To Catch a Thief, you will check out these two new stories that take place within the dark Skyrim Underground.


	2. Chapter 2

"The entire town is on the verge of madness, Erandur," the young woman complained, her desperate arms flailing with dramatic flair. On the verge was an understatement. The people of Dawnstar were starkraving mad and it was only a matter of time before the town started to collapse in upon itself. "Aren't you supposed to be helping us? You are Mara's servant. You have to do something!"

It was the same thing every evening in the Windpeak Inn. No matter how cold it was outside, the fire of everyone's temper made it feel as hot as an Elswyr summer. And the theatrics were more comical than a mummer's show.

Everyone in Dawnstar had become dramatic of late; exhaustion weighing them all down, tempers flaring well past boiling point over even the smallest of matters. On her way to the inn, Onóra had watched two of the townspeople draw daggers over a chicken. The guards intervened before there was bloodshed, but next time the guards might not be there. Not that she really cared either way. The people of Dawnstar weren't her people. Onóra didn't have people anymore, but she'd been living in the town for a couple of months and loathe as she was to admit it, she was starting to feel comfortable there. She took a sense of twisted pleasure just sitting quietly quietly in the corner of the inn with a cup of wine watching them nearly tear each other apart, but it was time for her to move on.

She could feel the urge to wander tugging on her soul.

"I am doing everything I can, Karita, but even with Mara's blessing, without a powerful mage to accompany me into Nightcaller Temple, I cannot face Vaermina's wrath alone. I'm sorry." The middle-aged Dunmer priest was on the verge of losing his own mind.

Soon everyone in Dawnstar would be mad, or dead…

"I'm so tired," someone moaned. "I'd cut out my own eyes if only I could sleep."

It wouldn't be long before they did start cutting out their own eyes, taking their own lives for the simple promise of a moments' peace from the curse that gripped them all. Onóra swept a glance across the Inn, the face of Death masked everyone her gaze passed over. Flesh rotting from bone, empty eye sockets, dry, gaping mouths filled with black and broken teeth. They were already dead anyway, most of them just didn't know it yet.

So what if Vaermina added misery and madness to their suffering? Somewhere the Dread Lord laughed at them all, she could almost hear his subtle amusement rustling like dry old leaves in the back of her mind.

"One more, barkeep," she said, pushing her empty cup across the bar. "For the road."

"You said that yesterday." Thoring sneered at her, distrusting eyes holding her gaze in challenge. "Are you finally going to leave this Gods-forsaken village?"

"If it please you so much that I leave, perhaps I'll stay another day to spite you."

"I don't like you, Elf." Despite his harsh words, Thoring filled her cup with Alto wine and Onóra dropped eight Septims on the counter when he shoved it back to her. "You have a queer air about you and there's been talk amongst the locals 'twas you who brought this curse upon us."

"I'm no witch, and you were cursed long before I came to Dawnstar." She tipped the cup back elegantly and drained it in four heavy gulps before lowering it once more. "All of you touched by darkness and death well beyond my capabilities, but if you ask nicely, maybe I'll come to see you tonight while you sleep and bring an end to all your suffering."

"You make the same promise every day," he sighed, lowering the bottle below the counter again. "And every night I wait for you."

"Death never comes when you expect it, Thoring." Pushing her stool away from the bar, she stood. Leaving an extra Septim on the bar, she headed toward the door and called without looking back over her shoulder, "Goodnight."

"Sweet dreams," the Nord leered at her, the madness clearly gleaming in his eyes. "I'll see you on the morrow, I'm sure."

Just for that, Onóra wanted to actually leave. She didn't like being predictable.

Thoring had spoken true. She'd been threatening to leave Dawnstar every day since she had come, but every time she looked east she couldn't bring herself to leave. It was as though a part of her took pleasure in the pain of all those nightmares; not just the townspeople's, but her own. She'd dreamed the same nightmares for centuries, but in Dawnstar they seemed so fresh, so real—as though she might actually reach out and touch her mother's face, feel her sister's arms squeezing so tight she couldn't breathe, smell the blood of the dead, the smoke and ash choking in their throats and rising from the ruins as they'd climbed out of the rubble with shards of crystal sticking in their skin.

A shiver rolled through her as she reached for the handle on the door, chilling her more deeply than the frigid, biting, snow-laced wind that swirled up the stairs to meet her on the inn's wooden porch. She watched the torchlight patrol along the waterfront, lighting up the face of the guard as he passed by. He slowed his pace when he saw her, suspicious, bloodshot eyes locking with hers to let her know that he was watching her, always watching her.

The Stormcloaks that had taken over the city after Ulfric won his war against the Empire had left her alone, for the most part, but his soldiers liked to remind her from time to time that Skyrim belonged to the Nords and her kind weren't welcome in their land. It wouldn't be long before those heightened tempers pushed them into doing something they'd all regret, but for the meanwhile she kept to the shadows.

She didn't like reminding them that she'd been in Skyrim longer than most of them had been alive any more than they liked hearing it.

"Please." A desperate hand slipped out of the shadows and grasped onto her robes before she could lower onto the first step. "Can you help me? I overheard you tell Thoring you were leaving Dawnstar."

"You know I cannot help you, priest." She towered over him, her commanding presence causing him to shy back a little. "I may be Altmer, but I'm no mage."

"No, no, I know you are not a mage," he nodded mournfully, the guard's torchlight glinting off his red eyes for a moment, making them glow like cinders in a dying hearth. "But you are a traveler. Are you truly leaving this accursed place?"

"I say I'm leaving every night," she pointed out. "And yet every morning I wake and I'm still here."

"I need your help," he told her. "I can't pay you much, in fact, what I do have to offer is probably less than it will cost for you to make the journey, but if you carry this missive to Riften and present it to the priest in Mara's Temple, Maramal will reward you for your efforts."

"Why not pay a Courier?"

"When was the last time you saw a Courier here in Dawnstar? Since the war's end and with no need for constant communication now that High King's men are firmly in place, no Courier dares set foot here on account of the nightmares. It could be weeks before we see another one, maybe even months. I'm afraid Dawnstar cannot wait that long."

"Then you should send word to your High King in Windhelm, ask for soldiers to clear the temple."

"Soldiers cannot help me anymore than you could. I need a mage, a powerful mage to stand against Vaermina."

"They say the Archmage of the College at Winterhold is now High Queen of Skyrim, and she's Dragonborn too. Again, I say you should send word to your king."

"Ulfric Stormcloak cares not for the troubles of Dawnstar, or any other hold under his thumb, so long as they remain under his thumb. Please, will you carry this letter to Riften for me?"

"Why should I help you, priest?" she glanced out over the water again, watched the guard shift at the water's edge and turn back toward the town again. "Give me one good reason."

"Because though you may not think much of me, a humble priest of Mara, there was once a time when I was not so different than you are now," he confessed. "I have watched you, have seen the darkness in your heart, but through the blessing of Mara's loving gaze I have also seen your light."

Onóra actually laughed, the echo drawing attention from the patrol guard again. He paused near the docks and held his torch up to reveal squinting eyes filled with distrust. No one laughed in Dawnstar anymore; those who did were surely mad.

"Your eyes fail you, priest," she said. "Not even through Mara's eyes would you see light in me." On the other hand, she had been looking for an excuse to get out of that wretched town. "How much gold will you pay me?"

"Two-hundred and fifty Septims," he offered, patting the side of his robes until the coin purse sang and jingled against his touch. "And if that is not enough to sway you, I offer you this enchanted ring." He held up his finger to show her the ring, dull silver, the emerald in it catching her eye. "It isn't much, as I said, but it will fetch a pretty price if you do not wish to use it."

"And the enchantment?"

"It will improve your ability to cast illusion spells." He watched her study the ring, she could feel his eyes narrowing over hers as if he were trying to work his way inside her mind to guess what she was thinking. "It is a long journey to Riften, but as I said, Maramal will compensate you more fairly than I."

"All right," she held her hand out for the ring. It would fetch a fair price if she needed to sell it. "I'll carry your message to Riften."

She took the bag of gold he offered and opened the drawstrings to drop the ring inside as well. The rolled parchment he handed her had been sealed with a hardened blob of red wax pressed with the sigil of Mara before it cooled.

"The letter must still be sealed upon delivery," Erandur said, noticing the way her fingertip smoothed over that seal before she lowered it into the pouch she carried over her shoulder. "Mara bless you, child."

"Mara does not hear my prayers." Her cynical reply carved deep frown lines into his jaw as he leaned back to study her face. "Save her blessing for someone who cares."

"Mara does hear your prayers, Onóra," he called after her as she was walking away. "Perhaps it is you who is not listening."


	3. Chapter 3

They called her Grelod the Kind, though everyone in Riften knew there was nothing kind about the woman who ran Honorhall Orphanage. On a quiet, rainy day when the ships were docked and everyone stayed indoors, the old bat's raspy bellows could be heard on the other side of town, a sound that never failed to send a fit of shudders rippling through Marcurio. It always made him want to send a letter to his mother in Cyrodiil and thank her for everything she'd ever done for him.

"I swear to Gods, I'm going sneak in there one night and get all the children out and then I'm going to burn that place to the ground," Ginna was saying, her scowling gaze flaring over her shoulder across the pier at Honorhall. "That woman is an abomination and the way she treats those children is appalling. Vipir's told a few horrendous stories about her, and you know recently one of the children ran away. I've heard rumors that he fled back to Windhelm and performed the Black Sacrament in hopes the Dark Brotherhood would come and kill that rotten hag."

Marcurio had stopped listening to her a while ago, though he should have been grateful. He'd been silently praying for weeks that she would talk about something other than Brynjolf and all the important Guild business keeping him occupied and distracting him from her. He'd warned her that a man like Brynjolf would never be good enough for her, but no. She hadn't listened. She'd gone off and married that roguish scoundrel of hers the same day she'd come back from Winterhold.

_Idiot_.

He'd been bracing himself all day for their departure on the morrow, knowing their trip to Falkreath would be riddled with volumes of incessant complaining.

"Are you coming inside, or are you just going to stand there all day letting flies into my house?" She brought him back to the moment, to the open door in front of him. Marcurio sighed and took a step into Honeyside. He always hesitated on the doorstep, a strange sense of déjà vu trickling through his blood before he crossed over the threshold. And it wasn't just Brynjolf that gave him shudders, though he was sure the man was just going to love coming home to find him there again. The scathing glares were harmless enough, but he had a feeling it wouldn't be long before Ginna's husband got tired of not being the only man in her life and reverted back to threats of bodily harm.

"Couldn't we just have talked on the pier again?" he stepped through door and closed it behind him. "I probably shouldn't even be here," he noted with another sigh, following her to the table opposite the hearth and dropping into the chair across from her.

"Who says? Brynjolf?" Ginna reached onto the shelf behind her and drew down a bottle of brandy; Cyrodiliic Brandy—the good stuff. "I told you a hundred times already, I took care of Brynjolf. He's not going to bother you. In fact, he's the one that told me to find you."

"Sure, he's not going to bother me today, but what about tomorrow."

"He won't bother you then either, I swear, Marcurio." Thunking the cork from the top of the bottle, even at that slight distance between them he could smell its sweet, almost fruity flavor. It really was the good stuff; only the best for Ginna, which for a thief seemed rare and confusing. Most of the thieves he'd known over the years tended to be pinchpennies, but not her. She spent money like a Black-Briar, and with as much time as she'd spent in Maven's company, Marcurio started to wonder if Riften's wicked matron had actually adopted her. She'd given Ginna the house, which was more than Maven could say she'd done for her own son, Sibbi. Not to say Sibbi didn't belong in prison, the little skeever. "You are so paranoid."

"I'm not paranoid," he scowled, eagerly reaching for the goblet she pushed toward him. "I just like my face the way it is now. And I like living in Riften, despite the things I've been known to say about this wretched town."

"He won't touch your pretty face, I promise. Now quit bellyaching and drink your brandy." I need to talk to you about something important."

"Again?" They'd already met once that day, earlier that morning, and they were set to leave on some super-secret mission first thing in the morning. She'd been calling on him to travel with her a lot, and while he was grateful for the company and the coin, he couldn't help but feel he wasn't her first choice. Not that it should matter in his line of work, work was work, but he like Ginna and he didn't like being second best, didn't like knowing that she'd take Rune over him in a heartbeat if her thieving companion were actually in town. Rune wouldn't ask questions or try to appeal to her obviously lacking sense of honor whenever she was hunkering down in front of some poor sod's front door with lockpicks in hand.

But Marcurio noticed that Ginna had changed after returning from whatever bizarre business had carried her and her thieving skeever of a husband away from Riften a few weeks earlier. She hadn't shared many of the details during their recent travels together, but word on the streets was that Mercer Frey was dead, and justly so, and it had been Ginna who'd put him to the blade.

She hadn't offered up any details and he hadn't felt comfortable asking her about it. The less he knew about the Thieves Guild and their business, the better off he was, and yet he still found himself running sidelong to their business as her hired companion. It was a definite conflict of interest in his line of work, but again, coin was coin, and she had plenty of it to line his pockets, or so it seemed.

But he had noticed a difference in her. She'd come back harder and more withdrawn, though he kept telling himself maybe she'd always been that way. After all, he'd only known her a couple months, and yet still, he couldn't help feeling that some strange darkness had taken hold of her. Even Brynjolf seemed different… well, when he was actually around.

Marcurio had been at Honeyside several times over the last month, and he'd only seen Brynjolf there twice. The other man had barely acknowledged him, saying hello to his wife before slipping down the stairs and not returning until after Marcurio had left. He was busy, running the Guild, or so Ginna said, but the mage couldn't help feeling that something darker was going on than she would ever admit.

"Are our travel plans changing, or are we still on for tomorrow morning?"

"Yeah… about that," she lowered her head, staring into her cup as her voice trailed off. "Brynjolf has decided he should come with me instead."

"And you want your coin back?"

"No, no," she shook her head. "He wants me to get my coin back, but I consider it an investment in our next job together, so you hold onto it."

"I see," he nodded, leaning back in the chair behind him and crossing his arms. "He doesn't like that you travel with me."

"No, he doesn't, but I do. He takes issue with the fact that I have to pay you as much as I do, but I've assured him time and again that it's worth it. You're a good companion, and your skill as a mage is truly unmatched… at least in my limited experience with mages, anyway." She swirled the liquid in her cup and then sipped it slowly before lowering it to the table again. "In fact as soon as I come back from this trip, I have another huge job lined up and I'm going to need a bit of magical back-up, I think. So, hopefully you'll be here in town when I'm ready to go on that job and you can travel with me then to earn that five-hundred gold."

"What? Are you raiding the Mage's College?" he snorted a little at his own joke, knowing not even greedy little Ginna was that stupid.

Even she laughed, and then grew serious again. "No, remember when I told you I'd been arrested in Solitude?"

"How could I forget?" He smirked to himself, still not believing that was the only time she'd ever been in prison. It was a rare thing for a thief to go through life without spending time behind bars, but they all said she was one of the best.

"I'll be heading there soon to do some business with a potential client, a powerful man who could get the Guild well on its way to glory again."

"Okay…" He sipped from his brandy and then tilted his head, waiting for her to tell him why she wanted to hire him and not partner with her go-to guy from the Guild. She and Rune were nearly inseparable, another reason he supposed Brynjolf was always scowling, but Rune had been away for a while and Marcurio was starting to doubt the Imperial thief was ever coming back. "And where do I come in?"

"That important client I mentioned," she started, lowering a shameful gaze to the table. "He's one of the reasons I was in prison. Maven cleared things with him, but he made it loud and clear that I was to stay out of Solitude, or I might find myself back in that cell."

"Why tell this to me?"

"You're a mage," she shrugged, looking up as if that alone should answer his question. "And an Imperial. You have the Voice of the Emperor at your disposal, and I know for a fact that there are spells designed to cool hot tempers. You must know a few of them."

"Wait a minute," he shook his head. "Isn't Rune an Imperial?"

"Well, yeah, but he's not a mage and I have no idea when he's coming back. We haven't heard from him." She lowered her head again, trying to hide the worry and sorrow she felt over her distant friend's absence. Before she'd come back and announced that she'd tied the knot with Brynjolf, Marcurio had hoped he could eventually be that kind of friend to her as well, but it didn't look like that would ever be very likely, no matter how often she told him they were friends. "I need something a little stronger than Imperial power in case things with Erikur get more heated than I can handle. A calming spell or something."

"Erikur? The Thane?"

"You know him?"

"Unfortunately, yes." He'd had his own bit of a run in with Solitude's most egomaniacal Thane, and though it had been years since last they'd met, he'd never quite forgotten it. Funny, but he always imagined Erikur had forgotten and yet he still avoided Solitude unless it was absolutely necessary. "Let's just say we don't exactly get on and leave it at that."

The trouble had actually been with the Thane he'd been more than just a companion to. Anariel had taken them to Solitude to collect on a job she'd done for young King Torygg's steward, Falk Firebeard. Erikur had propositioned her rather inappropriately just outside the Blue Palace as they were leaving, while Marcurio was standing right there. When she refused the Thane's advances, he followed her through the streets trying to bribe her as if she were little better than a prostitute. Marcurio's temper bubbled up inside him until it reached a boiling point that nearly singed the fur trim on the old, drunken windbag's fine clothes. Erikur had kicked them both out of Solitude with the help of the guards, swearing if he ever saw either of them in his city again he'd see them hanged.

They'd laughed about it all the way to Morthal, where Anariel had died less than a week later by his own hand, whispering, "Please forgive me," as she guided the stake in his trembling hand toward her heart.

"Marcurio?" Ginna prodded from across the table. The edge in her tone suggested she'd said his name at least twice, but he hadn't heard her. Lost in his thoughts, his aching mind trying desperately to cling to memories that should have died out long ago.

"Sorry." He slugged the last few swallows of his brandy back in one shot and lowered the cup to the table rather heavily. "I can't come with you to Solitude, Ginna." He pushed the chair away from the table and stood up. "I should go. I'm suddenly not feeling up to this anymore." Digging into the pocket of his robes, he drew out the heavy coinpurse she'd given him that morning and set it gently on the table and then he walked toward the door. He didn't know where he was going; there was no escaping her memory. Everywhere in Riften reminded him of Anariel, especially Honeyside, which had once been home to the Thane of Riften.

He was reaching for the door handle when she called out to him again. "Marcurio, are you all right?"

He shook his head, though he hadn't meant to. "I'm fine, I just… I need some air. Good luck, Ginna. I hope whatever you and Brynjolf have to do, it works out for you and your Guild." He was grateful for the damp chill of the air that gushed in with the opening door, the familiar scent of fish and water, rain and mud and new grass. She got up to come after him, lingering in the doorframe and watching him as he lifted his hood to keep out the slow drizzle and walked toward Mistveil Keep, but she didn't follow and he was glad.

It was times like that it paid to have friends who understood the value of distance and privacy. Gods knew Ginna had enough secrets of her own hidden away, things she'd never tell him no matter how close a friend she claimed he'd become to her since they'd met.

Passing through the southern gate, he made his way through the rising mist, toward the waterside. Sometimes the gentle lapping of the water against the shore was almost enough to quiet the tangle of thoughts inside his head, to quell the never ending ache he still felt for her, but not that evening. The fog hovering over the lake swirled in around him like a cloak, seeped through his robes until his skin prickled with gooseflesh and his bones ached almost arthritically. Brisk hands rushed across the fabric in an attempt to warm himself, but it was no use.

It had taken him years to learn how to put those memories out of his mind, the pleading, raspy whisper of his lover begging him to find the strength to kill her before the monster inside overpowered her. He'd bargained with her for hours, insisting that he would guard and protect her, keep her secret forever, hide her away by day and keep her safe until the sun went down.

"You can feed from me," he'd said. "Just please…" Tears had blurred his vision, only clearing when he blinked and they rushed down his face like two warm drops of rain. "Please, don't ask me to do this."

"Marc," she whispered, her hand resting against his cheek, twitching fingers fluttering through the loose strands of hair that fell down his face. "I know you do not love me…"

"No," he shook his head. "You're wrong, Ana. I do love you. I've always loved you. I'm just a fool, an idiot, but I can change. I will change. I swear it to you. Let me prove to you that I am a good man, a man worthy of your love."

All the green in her eyes, that luscious, beautiful green that had always reminded him of spring, was gone, the red-tinged orbs staring back at him so unlike the ones he'd fallen in love, he almost didn't believe it was still her, but he would learn to love her as she was. He would do anything to keep her, to prove himself to her.

She swallowed hard against the dry ache in her throat, reaching once more for the wooden stake on the ground beside her. "If you truly love me then please, Marcurio, let me die in peace, here in your arms before I no longer know who I am."

She'd lowered the wooden instrument into his hand and closed his fingers around it, drawing its jagged tip toward her heart. The last time he had kissed her was the only one he truly remembered, her cool breath passing across his lips when she exhaled, the soft tip of her tongue caressing his.

"I have walked this world for two-hundred and fifty years," she murmured, tightening her fingers around his. "I've seen war and death, blight and famine, darkness, so much darkness. I've watched entire cities fall to ruin, but in all my years I have never known anyone as brave or beautiful as you are, my love."

The kind of madness that came with killing someone you love never went away. In time, he'd learned to coincide with it, to tamp it down deep into the dark recesses of his soul, but it was always there. Taunting his every waking moment, haunting his nightly dreams. There was no way around the blame. He had killed her. He'd run that splintered stake right through her heart while screams of agonizing torment burned in his throat and she hadn't even tried to fight him.

_If you truly love me, please, Marcurio, let me die in peace…_

"At least one of us is at peace," he muttered under his breath, kicking the stone beneath his foot into the lake and watching it whiz off into the distance before plunking down with a thick and heavy splash that sent reverberating ripples in all directions.

Her final words had been, "Please forgive me." And so he had forgiven her, but there were days he actually wished her dying request had been, "Forgive yourself."

Even still, he doubted he ever would.


	4. Chapter 4

Onóra should have been uncomfortable in a city like Windhelm. The way the Nords there treated the Dunmer was absolutely wretched, according to a select few beyond the city gates, and as a High Elf her presence within the walls attracted immediate suspicion. She watched in silence as two over-confident Nords bullied a proud Dunmer woman, threatening to set fire to her home in the night when the eyes of the guards were less-inclined to see, but the Dunmer only narrowed her wide eyes and crossed her arms, watching them walk away, toward Onóra with malicious intent.

_Thalmor_, said their distrusting stares. _Spy_, their murmurs carried on the wind. _Assasin,_at least that much was true, but she hadn't come to Windhelm to dole out the Dread Lord's justice or prey upon Skyrim's newly crowned High King. Ulfric Stormcloak could rot for all she cared. She'd only stopped in his city on her way to Riften to rest for the night and replenish her dwindling stock of poisons from the White Phial.

"There's no place for your kind in our city," said a man in rags as Onóra made her way toward Candlehearth Hall. "Go back to where you came from."

Ignoring him, she walked the steps and reached for the door handle, pulling the door outward and surveying the inside of the inn before crossing the threshold. The Nord woman behind the bar seemed less than enthusiastic to have another patron on her hands, and she didn't seem to care what race Onóra was.

An Altmer sailor sitting unbothered on the bench at the bottom of the stairs spoke volumes of Windhelm's twisted sense of hospitality. The Khajiit and Argonians weren't welcome within the city limits and the Dunmer were housed in crumbling slums, but they were afraid to turn her kind away for fear of bringing the Aldmeri Dominion crashing down upon them in their weakened state of recovery from war. At least that was how it seemed when the woman behind the counter went out of her way to accommodate her.

"We've got cozy rooms and plenty of food and drink to sate your appetite."

"I'll take a room for the night," Onóra told her, drawing twenty gold Septims from her coin purse and dropping them on the counter. "And a bottle of Alto wine."

The woman pulled a bottle from beneath the counter and slid it forward. "Right this way and I'll show you to your room."

Elda Early-Dawn, as she introduced herself, chattered amicably enough as they walked the short hallway to the available room just beyond the entryway and on the left. She talked about the ever-burning candle on the hearth upstairs, noting that it had been lit 163 years earlier and asking Onóra to be careful not to blow it. She'd heard the story before, but it had been a dozen years at least since she'd been in Windhelm's prestigious resting spot.

"Just let me know if you need anything else," Elda said, backing out of the room and pulling the doors closed behind her.

Onóra unslung her carry-on pouch and bedroll, lowering them onto the chair in the corner of the room before testing the bed for comfort. It was cozy enough, she supposed, probably better than anything she'd get in Riften. It had been even longer since she'd ventured that far south, having decided it was best to stay away unless absolutely necessary. Riften had been her sister's territory; Anariel had even become the city's champion and thane for a time before she'd gone and gotten herself killed. But even after Anariel's death, she'd avoided The Rift, a part of her still afraid she might run into her sister's ghost there.

Seven years was long enough, she supposed. Maybe she could even find out where Anariel had been laid to rest and pay her a long overdue visit. They'd left so many things unsaid when they parted, both of them assuming in their haste and anger they would meet again to make amends when the time was right, if the gods were kind. One year had become ten years, ten had turned into twenty and before Onóra even realized it half a century had passed and though she liked to tell herself she couldn't even remember what had torn them apart, it was a lie.

"You were born broken," were some of the last words Anariel had said to her before they parted. "Everything about you is twisted and wrong. I've spent my whole life carrying your darkness, sister, but no more."

There'd been other parting words, but none so cruel as those, none really worth remembering. Anariel had no idea the things Onóra had done to protect and keep them safe, the poisons she'd slipped to spare them some cruel and unmentionable fate, the lives her blade had snuffed out to keep them from harm when they were two girls alone in the world. Anariel had always thought she was the strong one, the righteous protector, but Onóra had kept them alive in more ways than her sister could ever imagine.

Anariel saw only killing without honor; apparently honor made everything okay. She'd been so much like their father that way. It had been so long since she'd seen him, but she still remembered him. Every word he'd ever spoken, every playful tousle of her hair, every time he'd scooped them both into his arms and showered them with affectionate kisses. He used to say there were two halves to every whole, and together his daughters were the culmination of something powerful and strong. Anariel was everything light and wonderful and good; their father would have been so proud. Onóra was darkness incarnate, cold and broken and rotten to the core; that was what she always imagined her father would have said about her had he lived to see the woman she'd become.

No matter how many times she tried to justify her actions, to tell herself she provided a sense of balance in the world, it was no use. Her father's voice was ever-present in her thoughts, tsking and sighing and muttering that she was no daughter of his, and behind it was her sister's voice calling her broken and twisted and wrong.

She liked to think she didn't care, that they were only words and they had no power over her, but she'd loved her sister more than life itself. Maybe Anariel had been right; maybe she was broken. Or maybe she was no different than any other soldier or mercenary in the world. She took lives just like they did, collected payment for carrying out requests and she really did believe that the world was a better place without most of the people she disposed of. Vagrants, beggars, thieves, indebted gamblers, cheating husbands and wives, murderers, rapists… People who'd escaped the failing justice system, which was known for its seven-days-for-murder prison sentence (but only if you got caught.)

As if Anariel's work had truly been anymore righteous…

Popping the cork on her wine, she slugged back a few swigs, wiping her hand across her chin to catch a dribble. Upstairs she could hear the bard strumming the familiar beginnings of another tune, a song her mother used to sing to them when they were girls in the Summerset Isles. The bard didn't sing the song, but she didn't have to. Onóra need only close her eyes to hear those ancient, near forgotten words. A shiver of memory rippled through her and for a moment she felt like she was four years old again.

Strange that she should hear that song in Skyrim, she thought, even stranger to hear it in Windhelm.

Curiosity eventually won her over, and after securing her things inside the room's chest and locking the door after leaving, she ventured upstairs to have a look at the eternal candle on the hearth. It burned low, flickering gently when the door breezed open with a strapping, dark-haired Nord in fine clothes. He had melting flakes of snow in his hair and the vengeful keen of the wind at his back grew muffled behind the door as he closed it. A middle-aged blonde woman with a haggardly face immediately jumped up when she saw him, rushing across the room to meet him, much to his dismay.

"Have you given any more thought to my proposal, Captain?" Beneath the distortion of eventual death, the woman looked almost as if she might have been beautiful once.

"Viola, please." He gently pushed her aside with an exasperated sigh. "It hasn't been so long since my wife left me. That grief is still too near for me to even consider such a request."

"Well, you just let me know if you change your mind." She nudged him in the side with her elbow and wagged her eyebrows, a gesture that was impossible to miss. The good captain's face flushed pink with embarrassment, and he moved past her to the stairs to fetch himself a mug of mead to bury his troubles in.

Onóra sat in the corner with her bottle of wine for hours and just observed the people of Windhelm. She listened to their conversations, having discovered long ago that some of the juiciest gossip came directly from the townspeople, especially when they were oblivious to the stranger in the shadows. Windhelm's residents were no less crazy than the people of Dawnstar, she realized rather quickly. They just drew their insanity from a different well. There was a serial killer on the loose in the city; someone had been preying upon the young women, cutting them down in the streets in the dead of night. Three young girls had already fallen under his knife, the strange symbols carved into their skin rumored to be necromantic in nature.

Were she not already on an errand to Riften, she might have stuck around to see if she could catch that killer and give him a sweet taste of his own bitter medicine. But catching a killer took time and she'd promised Erandur she would deliver his desperate missive in a timely fashion.

And then another tidbit caught her ear though and she found herself leaning forward to take a listen.

"Downright shame about the Aretino boy," one woman shook her head. "After losing his father to that blasted war, his poor dear of a mother died of a broken heart, or so I heard it said. And that bumble-head of a steward up at The Palace of the Kings sent that frightened little boy off to Riften. I'd have looked after him. All they had to do was ask."

"I heard he was back," the man she gossiped to replied. "He's back and he's over there in his family's old house performing the Black Sacrament, trying to call up the Dark Brotherhood to kill some old bag down at that orphanage."

_The Black Sacrament_.

Those words definitely rang in Onóra's ears. She didn't think people even performed the Black Sacrament anymore in Skyrim, much to the Dread Lord's dismay. Killers were hired through secret channels and whispered rumors, jobs handed down through the ranks of the Dark Brotherhood… though not for Onóra. She always seemed to know exactly where to find work. It was like the vengeful and wicked called to her and she followed the sound of their despair.

"This boy," she spoke up for the first time since she'd sat down at that table in the corner, drawing the attention of everyone in the room. It was as if they hadn't even realized she was there at all, a shadow among the shadows leaping out to frighten them like some ghoul. "What is his name?"

"What boy?" a suspicious Nord woman shook her head.

"The Aretino boy?"

"Aventus Aretino," the man who'd been speaking with the gossiper confirmed. When he turned his head to look at her, she realized he was the same man who'd been harrassing the Dunmer just inside the gates. There was malice in his hard-steel eyes, an unspoken threat he was prepared to back up with his fists if need be. "Why? What's it to you? Is he wanted by the Thalmor too?"

"I've no love for the Thalmor," she assured him. "No more love for them than Ulfric Stormcloak."

"Isn't that just what a Thalmor spy would say to keep the hounds off her trail?"

"Rolff Stone-Fist, I don't care who your brother is or how far he's got his nose up the High King's backside! I've told you once if I've told you a thousand times, Candlehearth Hall welcomes everyone." The kindly old gentleman turned his attention to her then, smiling a near toothless grin. "Don't mind him, milady. Name's Nils. I'm the cook here at Candlehearth Hall."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Nils." She knew when to be kind, when to play the game like everyone else. "What can you tell me about the Aretino boy?"

She watched the jovial grin fade from his face, drawing down every wrinkle in his leathery old skin. "Not much," he shrugged. "There's rumors that he ran away from the orphanage south of here in Riften, a few people even claim to have seen him sneaking through the shadows of the marketplace at night trying to steal food, but if he has none of the guards have caught him yet. And that nonsense about the Black Sacrament… well, some people will say anything to get attention." He turned a glare on Rolff Stone-Fist and his partner in gossip.

"Is his family's home still empty?"

"Oh yes," Nils nodded. "Property rightfully belongs to Aventus once he's of age, and without anyone in the family to grant the Jarl consent to rent the house it'll remain empty until the lad returns, I expect."

"Thank you for the information," she nodded, pushing her chair away from the table.

Everyone in Candlehearth Hall watched her walk down the stairs. She didn't have to look back over her shoulder, she could feel their eyes boring into her flesh like hungry worms. They wanted to know who she was, what she was doing there, why she even cared about some little boy whose parents left him an orphan.

An orphan… just like her.

She'd always had a soft spot for them. Their vulnerability, their strength against all odds, their undeniable hunger to survive in a world that didn't want them.

She stopped at the desk to ask Elda where the Aretino residence was in the city and then she slipped out the front doors and down the stairs into the bitter Windhelm night. Stormcloak guards were everywhere, and just like the Stormcloaks she'd left behind in Dawnstar, they were suspicious of her simply because her ears were pointed and her skin was gold. One even felt the need to call out, "Make trouble in my city and you'll have to answer to me," as she was turning left into a small row of houses that led all the way back to the Palace of the Kings.

The Aretino residence was the second residence in the alleyway, the structure rising above the walkway and hovering like a heavy shadow in front of the palace. From several feet away she could hear it whispering to her, could hear the distant echo of the Night Mother's cackle in the back of her mind. _Yes_, she seemed to say, _yes_! _Another child prays to his mother_…

Onóra crept up to the door, scanning the alley for signs of life and finding none. Ducking down, she drew a lockpick from the deep pockets of her robes and deftly turned the tumblers into place, the lock giving away almost too easily and allowing her entry into the house. From the bottom of the stairs she saw a low golden light flickering and heard the constant murmur of a desperate child's voice.

"Sweet mother, sweet mother, send your child unto me for the sins of the unworthy must be baptized in blood and fear. Sweet mother, sweet mother, send your child unto me…" Her footsteps on the stairs were silent, leading her to an empty room but the glowing light of candles told her where to go. She followed their flicker and the constant sound of his voice. "…for the sins of the unworthy must be baptized in blood and fear. Sweet mother, sweet mother send your child unto me…"

The room he knelt in was empty, save for the candles and the effigy of his victim, skull, heart, bones and flesh laid out beneath his prostrate body. Nightshade petals were scattered all over the floor and his arm writhed up and down, performing the repetitive mock-stabbery of his intended victim. She'd never heard a child speak the words, though she'd heard tales of children walking the dark path before.

"Please, how long must I do this? I keep praying, Night Mother, why won't you answer me."

She lingered in the doorway, listening to his desperation until at last the burden of his grief was almost more than she could stand. "The Night Mother has no listeners anymore, Aventus, but she finds a way to answer when she can. I have come in answer to your prayer."

"You came!" He jumped up from where he'd knelt, blood on his hands, staining the front of his tunic and pantlegs. He even had a smear of it upon his cheek, half washed away by the falling of his own tears.

"Are you all right?"

"It worked! I knew you'd come! I just knew it!" Onóra thought he was going to hug her, he was so happy. "I did the Black Sacrament, with the body and the… the things and you came. An assassin from the Dark Brotherhood."

"Yes, yes." She nodded, reaching a hand out to rest on his shoulder. "The Black Sacrament. You did very well, Aventus. The Night Mother is proud."

"It took so long, so very long, but now you're here and you can accept my contract."

"Of course." She guided him out of the room and helped him sit in the chair near the hearth. He was exhausted, the dark circles under his eyes telling of endless nights of prayer to the Night Mother for vengeance and salvation. How long had it been, she wondered? How long since he'd eaten or taken any rest? "Tell me about your contract."

"My mother… she… she died. I… I'm alone now so they sent me to that terrible orphanage in Riften. Honorhall." She poured him a cup of water and he drank thirstily, dribbles of water spilling down his chin. "The headmistress is an evil, cruel woman. Grelod the Kind, they call her, but she's not kind. She's terrible. To all of us. So I ran away and I came home and performed the Black Sacrament. And now you're here! You can kill Grelod the Kind."

"There, there, little one." She stroked her fingers through his hair, brushing it away from his face and offering him a hopeful smile. It was easy to smile at children. Their deathmasks, though she could still see them, always seemed the least intrusive. She could still glimpse the glowing edges of life around his face, the promise of many long years before the corrosive hands of time took hold and drew him to his grave. "Everything's going to be all right."

"You will kill her, won't you?"

"Of course I will," she promised.

"Please hurry." The eyes he raised to hers were dark blue, heavy tears rimming the blood-shot edges and threatening to fall. "To be honest, I'm kind of lonely here. As much as I hated getting sent to Honorhall, I really miss my friends there."

"I will take care of Grelod the Kind," she assured him. No child should have to be alone. She'd been lucky in that she'd at least still had her sister. "And then you can go back to Honorhall and be with your friends again."

"Oh, thank you!" And then he did hug her, his arms thrown around her waist so fast it nearly knocked her back. She thought he was going to cry again, relief gripping him so tight his body actually started to relax for the first time in weeks, maybe even months.

It was a strange thing, strange and yet wonderful and in that moment there was nothing more in the world that she wanted than to make that little boy's wish come true.

"Thank you so much!" Aventus Aretino would sleep that night, like a child in the comforting arms of his dark Night Mother.


	5. Chapter 5

The journey to Riften from Windhelm took three days, mostly due to the atrocious weather just north of the Rift, but then Onóra spied not one, but three dragons just outside Shor's Stone and decided to take the long way south and around. As she walked the near-empty road, she thought of her sister. The Rift had once been Anariel's territory, and she had been some great hero to her people before the return of the dragons. She'd always wondered if her sister had lived to see their return whether she would have become a dragonslayer and given that Dragonborn queen of Ulfric Stormcloak's a real run for her money.

Anariel had always been a bit arrogant when it came to her skill in battle. Though it had been ages since the dragons disappeared from Nirn, as a girl her sister often fantasized she was slaying them with her wooden practice swords in the courtyard. Onóra had preferred to sit alone in the shadows, trying desperately to make herself invisible while her sister played.

That was where their father always seemed to find them, and when he would ask Onóra what she was doing, she would scowl and cross her arms before pointing out, "You're not supposed to be able to see me."

Sitting down beside her, his gaze centered on Anariel, watching every arc of her blade, every forward thrust of her body. Without even looking, he asked, "Illusion magic today then, is it? Who are we hiding from, little one?"

"Everyone," she harrumphed, trying to tamp down the jealousy she always felt whenever she noticed how proud their father was of her sister.

As if he sensed her feelings, he leaned back and lowered an arm behind her, drawing her near him even as she stubbornly resisted. "If you hide from me, I will be denied that pretty face of yours, but if you insist upon learning how to make youreself disappear, there is a book in the study beside your mother's scrolls called _Incident in Necrom_. You should read it."

Onóra had read the book in the study, and though it hadn't taught her how to make herself invisible, it had increased her illusion magic abilities and set her on the correct path for a time. She'd read every magical tome she could get her hands on after that, aligning herself with illusion and destruction, much to her mother's dismay. Her mother had mastered both restoration and mysticism in her lifetime, and was branching off into conjuration before the Oblivion Crisis. With Anariel following so closely in Ondelan's footsteps, Nuniel had just assumed Onóra's affinity with magic would lead her down a brighter path.

But even as her longing to learn the darker arts inspired long hours of study and practice, her father had encouraged her. "One day those skills might come in handy," he'd told his wife one night while the two of them hovered over their sleeping daughters' beds. Onóra hadn't been sleeping, but listening to their sorrow and increasing fear as the Daedra marched closer and closer to the city. "She may need them one day to protect herself if we're not there."

She'd always thought he wouldn't have been proud of who she'd become, but above all things their father wanted them to survive. Her dark skills had kept her alive longer than her sister. Maybe he would have been proud of her after all.

By the time she came upon Riften it was nearly dusk, and there was nothing left of the sun but a dusty pink edge of light smudged behind the mountains. She approached from the west, having passed through Treva's Watch along the river's edge until she came upon Lake Honrich and followed the stinking waters straight to the city's quiet docks. It looked like rain had kept the boats tied up that day, and not a soul lurked even in the shadows.

Onóra circled the city once before returning to linger near the docks. She studied the layout of the city and tried not to gag on the overwhelming stench of fish and refuse while she formulated a plan. Walking through the front gate was just asking for trouble if something went awry, and though the back gate was unguarded, she didn't want to chance running into any guards on the other side.

There was an old house near the edge of the water and within walking distance of the docks with an inconspicuous backdoor entrance. At first she thought it might be a quiet way to sneak into the city, but in less than an hour she'd seen at least three people enter and exit that house, which meant it was too heavily occupied to even consider. When she got closer, she noticed there was also a Thieves Guild Shadowmark carved onto the wooden railing of the porch near the door. Protection, she noted—marking it off-limits to anyone who didn't fancy having their liver carved out.

After watching a man and woman hike down the stairs and turn back toward road south of the city, Onóra followed the wall along the docks again until she found a set of loose boards that let her enter the under street. Her boots got a little wet, but it was better than finding herself face to face with some guard demanding she tell him what her business in Riften was. She could always lie and fall back on her missive from Erandur if she needed to, but she'd promised herself she'd take care of Grelod the Kind before visiting the Temple of Mara.

Sticking to the shadows and remaining undetected until total darkness set in, she made her ascendance to the upper-level pier.

Onóra had heard rumors that the Thieves Guild was on the rise again, so she'd expected a double patrol of guards on duty in what was notoriously known as Home to Skyrim's merry band of brigands. She'd been wrong about that, suspiciously noting that there were far less guards in Riften than any other city she'd been in.

Most of the homes and shops in Riften were cabin-style, old and faded logs specked with mildew stains from the constant damp and fog that slunk in off Lake Honrich and clung to the air. There were a few houses that had been kept in decent condition, and they towered over the rest of the city almost as menacingly as Mistveil Keep. The merchant circle in the center of the pier was four outdoor kiosks and a blacksmith, a tavern, the Blackbriar Meadery and a little indoor shop called the Pawned Prawn, not much to brag about, but it was more than a lot of other cities had to offer—Dawnstar included.

She walked casually, as if she belonged in that city, and no one seemed to notice her at all. Just the way she liked it. In fact, no one even saw her approach the front doors of Honorhall Orphanage and hunker down in front of the door to pick the lock. It creaked open on rusted hinges as it swung forward, and the shouting she heard from within set her on edge, wondering if she'd alerted the monster within of her presence. She immediately drew from the well of illusion deep inside her, disappearing in an unnoticeable hiss of magic, but a few moments of standing in the shadows near the door told her what Grelod the Kind was really on about.

"…your chores done! Those who shirk their duties will get an extra beating. Do I make myself clear?" Her voice was like the tines of an old fork scraping across the bottom of a porcelain bowl, and the children who'd been tormented with her cruelties would have nightmares about it for the rest of their lives, to be sure.

A dutiful chorus of young voices called out in reply, "Yes, Grelod."

"And one more thing! I will hear no more talk of adoptions! None of you riff-raff is getting adopted! Ever! No one needs you. Nobody wants you. That, my little darlings, is why you're here, why you will always be in here until the day you come of age and are thrown into that wide, horrible world. Now, what do you all say?"

"We love you, Grelod. Thank you for your kindness."

It was pitiful, those innocent children paying homage to a monster so cruel, and against their will at that. Onóra leaned in to take a peek through a small crack in the door and caught sight of the scraggly old bag in the middle of the room, a group of children ranging in age milling around her.

"That's better," the old woman nodded. "Now scurry off to bed, my little guttersnipes, and if I hear one more whimper from this room tonight, everyone in it will get a beating!"

They scattered like autumn leaves in a heavy gust of wind, leaping into their beds and disappearing under the tattered covers without even so much as a whisper.

"Constance!" Grelod barked. "Make sure everything is locked up. It's light's out."

"Of course, Grelod." A meek young woman standing near the fire turned around to face the lady of the house, her soft brown eyes downcast to avoid the woman's cruel stare when she passed her to head out of the room.

Constance passed right by Onóra without notice, locking the door and then shuffling out of the room again. Leaning around the corner again, she watched the old woman disappear into a bedroom and close the doors behind her.

Onóra waited. She listened to the old boards creak and settle, the gentle patter of rain drumming against the rooftop, the crackle and spit of logs in the fireplace as a chorus of sleeping children drew breath after breath. Constance had lain down on the cot in the room with the children, and when the elf crept by her first, she paused and watched the younger woman sleep. The rise and fall of her chest, the occasional flutter of her eyelids. Death's hand had been kind to this one, only the subtle hum of his presence clinging to her, distorting her face until it was wrinkled as an old fig, lips puckered and peeling. When Onóra blinked, she saw her again as she was meant to be seen, and then she passed on through the rows of beds.

There was one empty bed near the fire, the blankets neatly tucked into the mattress, the pillow fluffed. It must have been Aventus's bed, she thought, moving forward until she came to the door she'd seen Grelod the Kind enter. She opened to door quietly, but one of the children stirred, a little girl with golden braids and wide grey eyes. Even in the sparse light from the fire, Onóra could see the smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose.

Children and animals could almost always see through invisibility magic, and when the assassin moved the little girl's eyes followed. Lifting a long, golden finger to her lips, Onóra told her silently to stay quiet and the child swallowed hard before nodding and lowering her head back to the pillow. Slipping into the room, she closed the door behind her and stalked to the edge of the bed where she hovered for a moment to watch the old woman sleep.

People always looked more fragile when they slept, and though normally Onora would have woke her victim to let them know who sent her, her heart went out to the children in the other room. There were so many of them, already broken and alone, afraid of the world around them. Even if the majority of them felt the same as Aventus Aretino, she didn't want to further scar them with the sound of their keeper's dying screams. There would be enough to scar them when they found the body come morning.

Coating the tip of her dagger with a unique paralytic poison, she leaned over, her shadow passing across Grelod's body like the widespread wings of the angel of death. She positioned the dagger just over her heart and plunged it quickly through her ribcage and into her life-vessel. She didn't even have time to scream, the poison spreading quickly through her blood, but not before her eyes shot open and she gasped betrayal.

Onóra leaned down and whispered softly in the dying woman's ear, "Aventus Aretino says hello." She stood up straight again, watched the frantic horror in old Grelod's eyes upon hearing those words. How many times had she stood over that poor little boy with a switch in her hand a wicked hatred in her heart, thriving on his pain and sorrow the way summer crops thrived on heavy rain after a dryspell? How many times had she told him his mother hadn't loved him enough to live? That no one in the world cared for him, loved him, wanted him?

The corner of the assassin's mouth lifted into a satisfied grin when those wide eyes relaxed and a final breath eased from between Grelod the Kind's lips. She almost looked peaceful, Onóra thought. Peace was more than she deserved, but that was not for her to judge.

Her job was done. Aventus Aretino was avenged and the children of Honorhall Orphanage were safe from at least one monster. Sheathing her dagger, she tiptoed out of the room and found the little girl who'd caught her sneaking into Grelod's room had fallen asleep. Come morning, she would think it was just a dream, even after they discovered the old woman dead in her bed.

She slipped out through the door she'd come in, closing it quietly behind her and taking a deep breath of the heavy air. She'd find somewhere else to sleep for the night and return to Riften in the morning to talk to the priest, maybe see if she might find someone who knew where her sister had been buried so she could pay her respects. For the moment, she just wanted to wash the blood from her hands and get a good night's sleep.


	6. Chapter 6

The three of them took their prospective stances within the triad branching out from the main circle, and while Karliah called upon Nocturnal, Ginna felt her gaze shifting left over her shoulder, in Brynjolf's direction. She wished she could see his face, or know what he was thinking. He'd been so passive-aggressive about everything since she'd told him she thought Nocturnal wanted her to use the Key, but could she really blame him? After everything Mercer put them all through, that key should have been locked up and never touched again. Forgotten before it could wreak havoc in anyone else's life.

He hadn't said much to her while they were changing into their Nightingale armor, and when she'd tried to make a point of eye contact with him, he'd actually given her the cold shoulder. Stalking toward Karliah, he'd said nothing more than, "Let's get this over with, lass. I've got important things that need taking care of, and the sooner I can get back to them, the better."

Important things that had held them apart more than brought them together of late. Had they made a mistake in getting married so soon? It hadn't felt like that at the time, but the tension between them was beginning to suggest otherwise. All that time she'd been blaming the Skeleton Key, but what if the tension had nothing to do with Nocturnal? What if they just weren't meant to be?

Gods, that thought made it hard for her to breathe. That alone should have been indication of how stupid she was being. Of course she and Brynjolf were meant to be together, if for no other reason in the world than that no one else in all of Nirn would have tolerated either one of them.

Glancing back toward the center of the altar, Ginna kept waiting for the air to stiffen the way it had done last time, for the electricity to sharpen and crackle until she could feel it in her blood and bones, but nothing happened.

"Mistress of Shadows, we seek your council, please grace us with your presence," Karliah pleaded, her tone unyielding in its faith and devotion.

Ginna could feel eyes on her, boring into her soul and when she turned her head left again she saw Brynjolf staring straight at her through the shadowed openings in his mask. She imagined that beneath the hood, he was smirking at her; his silent eyes seemed to carry the words, _I told you so_, straight into her mind. Even knowing firsthand the Gods and Daedric Princes were real did very little to foster faith in him. Anything that required him to bend the knee was a waste of time. Pomp and ceremony, he hated it all and she knew that, but for once couldn't he just humor her? Support her and make her feel like he was on her side? She knew what she was feeling, what she'd experienced in those dreams. All she needed was confirmation.

Waiting in the silence for an answer to her call, Karliah's uplifted arms didn't waver, her eyes did not drift from the apex and seeing her absolute devotion, Ginna felt a little foolish. A part of her hadn't believed Nocturnal would answer, and maybe that was why she hadn't come.

"Lady Nocturnal," she turned toward the center and lowered onto her knees, cutting Karliah off before she could begin another round of petitioning. "I seek not just your council, but confirmation of your will. In the shadows of my dreams you came to me, your humble servant, and bid me to use the Skeleton Key to not only assist you, but to further my own gain. Please, lady, all I ask is for you to tell me here, before my fellow Nightingales, what it is you want me to do."

Nothing… Only the constant drip and splash of water trickling to the floor behind the altar, the distant wail of the wind through the caverns of that hollow space, and then she felt it when she drew a breath in preparation of the sigh about to deflate her chest. She could smell the air thickening with ozone and electricity, the properties of everything around her shifting to accommodate the shadows as they gathered and swarmed together in a slow swirl of rich blue light writhing to life on the altar.

Before she could finish manifesting, Ginna lowered her arms in reverence, her heart thundering so hard her eardrums felt like they might explode.

"What is the meaning of this summons?" Her voice echoed through the chamber like a thousand bad dreams, the constant chatter of birds at its back, lifting it, lifting her presence into their world until she hovered above the symbol on the floor, a mesmerizing ball of blue and black light pulsating with otherworldly energy. "Have I not given you a task, Nightingale? Why do you bother me when there is work to be done?"

"The terms of your request are uncertain, Lady," Karliah spoke on her behalf. "You asked us to return the key, but now you want us to use it? We only seek clarity, my lady. Enlightenment so that we might carry out your wishes as you see fit."

"Clarity?" Her rich laughter reverberated through the chamber. "Enlightenment? Am I not the Daedric Prince of Darkness? The Queen of Murk and Shadow? What use have I for clarity, Karliah? Honestly, I thought you, of all people, would know me better than that by now."

"Please, Lady Nocturnal," Ginna intervened. "It was not Karliah's idea to summon you. It was mine. I am new to your service and do not trust myself, not since I've had the Key in my possession. To dream you want me to use it after you expressly instructed us to restore balance and return it to the Twilight Sepulcher seems well in line with the Key's powers of persuasion, and not something you would actually want me to do."

"You don't know me very well yet, do you?" the shadowed light mused. "I choose my allies wisely, and after Karliah spoke to me of the vengeance burning in her heart for Mercer Frey, I found myself longing to play a little game. A game of vengeance and betrayal, punishment and due, and who better to serve me in this game than the three of you, my most humble servants and protectors."

"I didn't sign on for this to play games at your whim." Brynjolf's protest echoed across the vast space between them and Ginna actually felt the focus of Nocturnal's shadowy attention shift toward him.

"The fire-hearted Nord speaks at last," she made a sound, like a tongue clucking against the roof of a mouth. "I wondered how long you were just going to stand around and allow life's whims to move you where they would without a fight. You like to play the victim, you always have, but you're one of mine now, and I do not suffer victims. Nevertheless, you swore yourself to my service, Brynjolf of Riften, and you will play whatever games I see fit for you to play." Ginna swore she saw him flinch a little, as if those words had stung him. Her disembodied focus rolled once more, drifting across the cavern until Ginna could feel it pulsing in her direction. "All three of you will play my games and see them through until the end."

Karliah's soft voice filled the void of sound that followed that admission. "What would you have us do, Lady Nocturnal?"

"Use the Key," she said. "Restore your Guild, fill your chests and coffers with as much wealth as you can. Grow rich and powerful until all who encounter you envy and fear you completely. Feed from the well of power, discover your potential and grow strong. Become one with me, align yourselves with me and when the time comes stand and fight for me against the one who seeks to betray me. _That_ is what I would have you do." She was silent for a moment, almost as if she were willing one of them to deny her order. The thick air roiled with electricity, and beneath her armor Ginna could feel every hair on her body standing at attention. And then she asked, "Is this something you can do, or do I need to find another triad to serve me?"

"We are your humble servants, Lady," Ginna spoke up before Karliah could. "We will do whatever you ask of us."

"Good, now if that's all, I have important business that requires my attention. Do not summon me again to satisfy your petty curiosities, or you will all be sorry you disturbed me. Am I clear?"

"Yes, Lady Nocturnal."

Just as quickly as she'd come, she disappeared with a pop and a rush, but the electric heaviness in the room did not abate. From the corner of her eye, she saw Brynjolf leaving the platform, walking down the long aisle until he arrived on the altar where only moments before Nocturnal had hovered. Karliah joined him, but Ginna wasn't ready yet. Her feet felt both light and heavy where she stood. She looked down at the two of them and tried to imagine what they were thinking, how soon it would be before Brynjolf's acceptance for Nocturnal's will turned to sarcasm aimed at his wife.

Finally gathering herself, she picked up her feet and started down the ramp, meeting with them in the center and looking between the two of them.

"I can't believe she actually wants us to use the Key," Karliah murmured. "Come into the common room and tell me about your dream again while I make us all a cup of tea."

"We'll join you in a minute, lass," Brynjolf said.

Reaching up to remove her hood, Karliah looked between the two of them and nodded agreement before slowly walking out. Brynjolf waited until she was little more than a shadow cast upon the wall outside the ceremonial chamber before he reached out and curled his fingers around Ginna's upper arm. With the other hand, he lifted the hood away from her face and brushed the hair off of her cheek.

"It seems I owe you an apology, love," he began. Those fingers squeezed gently, before reaching up to draw her gaze upward when she started to look away. "I should have listened to you," he went on. "Taken your concerns more seriously. I'm a terrible husband."

"Don't say that." The edges of her mouth twitched in protest of the smile she tried to hide from him, but something about him saying those words terrified her. Sometimes she still had a really hard time believing her luck when it came to Brynjolf, even on the days they did nothing but bicker and turn their backs on each other in bed.

"It's true, I'm awful at this whole being married to someone else thing," he admitted. "I keep ridiculous hours, leave you sitting at home alone with Marcurio until all hours of the night, send you off traveling with other men. And Talos strike me where I stand, but I'm guilty of being a little glad when a job comes up that takes you away for a day or two because then I don't feel so pressured to rush home every night and make sure you're not upset with me for spending so much time trying to get our Guild back on its feet."

Stepping back, she shrugged out of his grip as her hackles immediately went up. "You're actually happy when I go away?"

"Not happy, no," he shook his head. "I guess that was a stupid way of saying all the tension between us has made everything really difficult lately. See," he paused for a moment. "What kind of husband would say something like that?"

"Apparently, a really bad one," she snarked. "Do you not want to be married to me anymore, Bryn?"

"Of course I do, lass. You're the only good thing that's ever happened in my life. Shor's bones, how could you even ask me that?"

"I don't know, I just thought…"

He reached for her again and drew her into his chest, tilting his head to look down into her eyes. A lock of hair fell across his face, curtaining his gaze until she reached up and moved it away. She loved looking into his eyes; they were green as the sea and whenever that impish grin of his made an appearance they shone with the most incredible light. Gods, she loved him so much it made her legs weak and wobbly whenever he was near her like that—and yet every minute they were together they were at odds. How could that even be?

"I've never wanted to spend every waking moment of my day with anyone before. Frankly, lass, most people get on my last nerve after about five minutes, but you…" Shaking his head, the rogue hair she'd just pushed away fell back into place and she snorted a laugh. "Since the day we met, I've wanted to be with you all the time. From dawn 'til dusk, every minute of every hour, and when you're not with me there's this big, aching emptiness right here." Reaching for her hand, he lifted it over the left side of his leather breastplate and held it there. "I thought life was going to get easier after we took care of Mercer."

"It hasn't, has it?"

"No, it's gotten harder. We're always on edge, always at each other's throats about this unimportant thing or that. It's like we skipped through all those years of wedded bliss you're always hearing couples talk about and we've turned straight into some ornery old codger and his spiteful wife taking snipes at each other just for kicks."

Most men Ginna had known throughout her life would never have talked so openly about their emotions, but that was one thing she could always count on when it came to Brynjolf. It was one of the reasons she'd fallen in love with him in the first place. Everything was on the table, but he was right. Lately they'd barely even had time to make eye contact, much less appreciate the newness of their relationship.

"I don't want our life to be like this, Ginna," he reached up and took her chin between his thumb and forefinger, holding her in place so she couldn't look away. "I don't like the sound of you sighing before you roll over in bed and turn your back to me, and I hate the cold nights even worse."

"Oh Bryn."

He lowered his forehead to hers and closed his eyes. "I want to be partners, just like we said, in every aspect of our life together."

"Then we have to do it together," she pointed out. "Not you sitting neck-deep in paperwork in the belly of the Cistern while I'm out running jobs for Vex and Delvin Rune like some lackey. I know I'm not the Guildmaster yet, but one day we will share that honor together. Why don't we start sharing all its responsibilities now? Really make the life we want for ourselves, Brynjolf?"

"All right," he agreed. "Let's do it then."

"And as much as I hate to say I told you so, it looks like we're going to have a little help from Nocturnal to make all that happen," she pointed out. "We've got the Skeleton Key and all its perks on our side. We're going to be unstoppable."

She watched the dimple in his cheek deepen as he grinned. "You didn't hate to say that."

"No," she laughed. "I didn't."

"Do you forgive me for being the worst husband the world had to offer you?"

"Only if you forgive me for the being the worst wife for making you sleep in an ice box every night these last few weeks."

He leaned down and kissed her, mouth opening against hers as his arm slid down the length of her back to sweep her closer. And when she was in his arms, all of her doubts and fears, all of the worry that maybe they weren't really meant to be melted away and she felt like a fool for even doubting that Brynjolf was exactly where she was supposed to be.


	7. Chapter 7

Time didn't drag away the memories.

Onóra had been alive long enough herself to know that first hand, and yet a part of her expected to walk through Riften without incident, without being recognized for what she was: the spitting image of her dead sister. A ghost perhaps, turning a few heads and sparking remembrance, but the mage who'd followed her into the temple had more than just appreciative memory in his eyes.

He'd known Anariel and well, judging from the look he wore, but not well enough to know she'd had a sister.

That didn't surprise her.

Anariel had always been a bit self-righteous. Her complacency had been the very thing that tore them apart in the first place. Gods forbid anyone associate her with a killer, even if being a thane and hero probably put more dead bodies behind her than Onóra could ever lay claim to as an assassin. Justice for the wronged only was only excusable with the blessing of a Jarl. Society was flawed that way.

She couldn't take the chance that someone else in town had been closer to her twin, close enough to know Onóra was out there. The Gods alone knew the kinds of stories Anariel would have told her friends.

Coming out of the temple she took note of the Hall of the Dead just left at the bottom of the stairs and on a whim she turned in that direction. The Nords of Skyrim were nothing, if not predictable. A cemetery could often be found within walking distance of the Hall of the Dead, and if her sister had been buried in Riften that would be where she found her.

Despite everything that transpired between them before they parted, despite the fact that Onora looked Death in the eye every single day, a part of her still missed her sister. She still struggled with knowing the other half of her soul, the strong half, had been taken away before she ever had a chance to tell Anariel the in spite of it all, she still loved her more than she'd ever loved anyone or anything else in the world.

Sharply rounding the corner, she came face to face with a broad-shouldered Nord who was almost as tall as she was, his fiery red hair contrasting with his pale white, freckled skin and a pair of bright green eyes so stunning they almost rivaled the large emerald in the ring that adorned his right forefinger. But it wasn't the beauty of his eyes that stunned her; it was the glowering recognition that flared to life in them. A thief, judging from the number of pockets adorning his black leather armor.

"My ma used to say true evil never dies, but I always thought she was just superstitious," the man said.

"I beg your pardon?" She drew her head back to really look at him, to determine if she'd somehow crossed paths with him before. She'd faced off against plenty of thieves in her day, usually when their heists went awry and someone in the household wound up on the end of a blade. The family would hire her to exact vengeance, but if that were the case they wouldn't be standing face to face.

He lifted a hand to scratch through the short beard on his chin, squinting as if narrowing his eyes would make sense of the woman standing before him. "She also said to never trust a magic user. What is this? Some kind of necromancy? I always thought that bastard was shady, and my wife is gonna be more than a wee bit disappointed when I tell her I actually had a legitimate reason to take him down."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"I'm not buying it lass, so cut the act. Where's he been hiding you all these years?" The strong grip of his hand around her bicep took her by surprise, hard fingers pressing bruises into the tender flesh along the back of her arm, and when he yanked her closer there was actually a hint of fear sparking through her blood. "I've worked too hard for this. You're not taking my Guild down again. I'll kill ya this time if I have to."

"Let go of me." She tried to wrench out of his grip, but he was strong and the fury in his eyes told her he wasn't about to let her go until he got answers.

"Not until you tell me what your plans are."

"I have no plans," she insisted, her mind racing for a solution. She could feel her fear stimulating the magicka inside her, drawing it to the surface and in her free hand the energy began to gather. But she was never given a chance to use it.

"The lady said let go, Brynjolf." A blast of electricity surged through the man holding onto her, and she felt the tingling bite of it course through his body into hers before his hand loosened and he fell back unconscious.

A quick shot over her shoulder and she saw the Imperial mage from the temple standing in the shadowed stone archway beside the cemetery, his amber eyes alight with rage, chest heaving as the anger began to dissipate and a new emotion took over. Regretful fear.

"Eight Divines!" he hissed, rushing forward and kneeling down over the thief, his healing hands working over the man. The subtle chiming of restoration magic hummed in her ears. "Ginna's going to have my head on a pike."

Brynjolf began to stir, groaning as he rolled his head along the soft grass behind his head. The mage was distracted by his own regretful attack, and Onóra glanced through the cemetery for the easiest way to escape the situation without further inquiry, struggle or notice. The gates on the other side of the cemetery were closed and probably locked and she didn't want to head back through the way she'd come in case the guards had been alerted to the skirmish.

Shooting a look back over her shoulder, she felt so trapped and helpless, like some kind of victim—feelings she was completely unaccustomed to.

Gods, she'd just wanted to pay her sister the respects she deserved. Eyes scanning through the cemetery again, her sudden inclination to escape the scene was thwarted when she caught sight of a meticulously carved, almost monolithic stone with the words THANE OF RIFTEN etched across the base. Without even thinking, she started toward that stone, as if the soul of her sister drew her in, and when she saw _**Anariel of the Summerset Isles**_every muscle in her throat tightened with grief.

All those years, she'd felt it, known it in her heart, but seeing that stone suddenly made it feel more real, more final than it ever had before. She thought she could just pay her respects and walk away, but that grief overwhelmed her and she knelt on the ground before the stone, her hand reaching out to trace the letters of her sister's name.

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't put my blade in your heart, mage," the Nord at her back challenged, his stamina and health quickly recharging. Onóra could hear him shuffling to regain his feet, but she didn't look back at them when he added, "And don't hide behind Ginna's skirts either. Even she won't protect you once she finds out you attacked me."

"She will when she finds out you're threatening innocent citizens," the mage countered. "Doesn't that go against one of your stupid Guild codes? None of which have ever made any sense, by the way, if you ask me."

"I didn't ask you." Brynjolf pointed out. "You know what she cost us, Marcurio. The two of you are at least half the reason my Guild is in such a bad way in the first place. She thwarted one of our biggest heists, landed Vipir in prison for almost a year and nearly got me killed. That bitch set us back decades and we are still trying to recover everything we lost on her account."

"It wasn't just her fault, and you know that now as well as I do. There were other forces at work against you. Supernatural forces, if what Ginna's told me is true."

"Ginna needs to learn when to keep her teeth together, and supernatural or not, it still doesn't change what your precious thane did to my Guild."

"That may be so, but that woman isn't who you think she is," Marcurio said quietly. "I thought it was her too, and who better than I would know her anywhere?"

He posed that question so softly, Onóra barely heard him over the emotional turmoil in her own head. She needed to get out of there, to get away from that town, those people who once knew her sister, but try as she might to push herself to stand and walk away, she couldn't move. It was like Anariel had reached up out of the earth, the bones of her hands gripping around her wrists and holding her fast where she knelt. For the first time in decades she was among people who'd known her sister, people who might actually know what had really happened to her.

_She died,_ the voice in Onora's head reminded her. _That's all you'll ever need to know._

"It's not her."

"That explanation might buy you a speck of time while I try to sort it all out in my head, but it doesn't make my blade thirst for _your_ blood any less right now," Brynjolf hissed in obvious pain. "If I were you, I'd get the lass away from our backdoor and quickly because if Vipir happens to see her, no amount of promise from you that she isn't who he thinks she is will save her."

Onóra turned to look over her shoulder, watching as the Nord groaned his way to his feet. He shook out the fiery locks of his bright hair and dusted himself off, stretching the ache of shock magic from his bones. He met her gaze, cold green eyes scrutinizing her with such hate, the killer inside awoke and tangled with the protective streak that had driven her to do unspeakable things over the centuries in the name of her sister. Returning his animosity tenfold, his scowl deepened the dimpled scar that marred his cheek beneath the patchy, unshaven red hair that covered his mug. Then he turned into the crypt, disappearing through some secret underground entrance.

The mage followed until he arrived behind her, and when she looked up into his warm, molten amber eyes she saw such tenderness, such love it actually made something inside her quiver. Something she quickly pushed deep down into her belly and tried desperately to ignore.

"I could have handled that myself."

"Maybe," Marcurio shrugged his left shoulder up, a slow smile dawning at the corners of his mouth. "But I've been itching to take some of my frustrations out on that guy for years. Believe me when I tell you he had it coming." He laughed, a soft chuckle that battered at her secure defenses, and then he lowered a hand to help her to her feet.

Onora regarded that hand, the smooth white palm a gentle contrast against his olive skin, the dark hairs on his arm still raised in reaction to the shock magic he'd just issued moments before. She didn't take it, but rose to her feet to tower over him almost in challenge, a gesture meant to show him she was strong, that she didn't need help from anyone.

"Brynjolf's more bark than he is bite. He rarely fights his own battles, but he's right about Vipir the Fleet."

_Vipir the Fleet_? What kind of person walked around with a name like that?

"We should get you out of here before he rears his ugly Nord head from the cistern."

"Don't worry," she assured him. "I was just leaving."

"Were you heading back to Dawnstar? Maybe we could travel together?"

Was he daft?

"I don't think so, now if you'll excuse me…" She brushed past him, heading toward the stone arches that led back into the temple courtyard. Intent on walking all the way to the front gates and as far from Riften, from her sister and those people who knew her as her feet would carry her, his next words actually stopped her in her tracks.

"Family was always a sore subject with Anariel," he broke the awkward silence, unintimidated by the fact that she was more than a head taller than he was. "She never mentioned she had a sister, much less that she was a twin. All she ever said was that they were all dead."

He could have no way of knowing how deeply those words cut her, the knife of her own twin's denial of her existence wrenching in her heart. After everything, she'd gone to the grave still hating the only person in the world who would have died for her without question. It burned in her belly, the acid of anxiety and sorrow rising up like bile in the back of her throat.

"Yeah, well…" she barely looked back at him when she said, "she lied. I guess she wasn't such a righteous do-gooder after all."

"Wait," he called after her, picking up the pace to catch up with her before she could slip away. Falling into step beside her, he began to babble apologetically. "That came out wrong. I mean, it came out right, but it was a cruel thing to say. I never think things through when I'm talking. It's probably one of the reasons I'm still single at my age. Most men I know have long since settled down, even that brutish rogue who just tried to rough you up is married. And I'm still trying to figure out why she married him. I mean, she's just as bad as he is when it comes to putting her hands in pockets they don't belong in, and she's a nightmare with a blade, but aside from that she's a nice woman."

"Look," she stopped walking and squared off against him. "I don't know how you knew my sister and I don't care. She's just as dead to me now as I was to her, and maybe I thought I wanted to know what happened, but I was wrong and I was stupid to come here. Now back off, or I'll…"

"You know, it's remarkable how much you look like her. Even the way your eyes bunch at the corners when you're angry… It's uncanny."

Okay, he _was_ an idiot. There was no other explanation for the cumbersome way he threw around such hurtful, almost spiteful commentary without a thought.

"Let me travel with you to Dawnstar," he proposed again. "I'll watch your back, get you there safely. I am an apprenticed wizard and my skill in battle is unmatched."

"Do I look like I need an escort to Dawnstar?" she retorted, the simple nerve of the guy intriguing her in ways she couldn't even begin to understand.

"Well, no, especially not if you're anything like your sister when it comes to wielding a blade."

She drew the dagger from her hip so fast, he barely knew it was coming until it arrived at his throat. He let out a surprised gasp when his shoulders connected to the stone wall behind him. The stubble on his neck felt deliciously rough against her knuckles, the pulse of adrenaline thumping through his jugular beneath her blade.

"My sister and I are nothing alike, little man. I was smart enough to not get myself killed. You'd do well to remember that."

Withdrawing just as quickly as she'd moved in on him, the sound of trouble brought a guard shuffling into the yard at her back. "What's the trouble here? Marcurio?"

"No trouble, sir," he gulped those words free, lifting a hand to stroke his throat where her dagger had been just seconds before.

"No lollygagging then. Go on, find something to do before I haul you both in for disrupting my mood."

"Mood disruption is not a crime," the mage shot back, an edge in his tone that almost made Onóra laugh out loud.

"Perhaps not, but disturbing the peace is reason enough for me to cart you off to the dungeons. Don't tempt me, young man."

Marcurio lifted away from the wall, still running his hand over his neck as he shouldered past her without another word and walked out into the street. He didn't look back.

A strange surge of guilt fluttered through her as she returned her dagger to the hilt and watched him go. Never in her life had anyone looked upon her with such fascination, wonder or delight. Scorn, derision, anxiety, yes, but never genuine interest or intrigue. She didn't know how she felt about that, but there wasn't time to give it much thought. The guard who'd threatened them was eying her with unspoken promise of further questioning if she didn't walk away, and the last thing she needed was someone asking her why she'd come to Riften.

She needed to get back to Windhelm anyway to put Aventus Aretino's mind at ease.

As she slipped out of the courtyard, she glanced up just in time to catch one last look at the mage who'd known her sister, and then he disappeared into the tavern, the double doors closing at his back.


	8. Chapter 8

She'd nicked the skin on his throat. Marcurio could feel the sting where her blade had been, the tender throb of pain in the places her fingers pressed into his neck, and his shoulders felt like two crumbling bricks barely holding his throbbing head in place.

It was oddly exhilarating the more he thought about it, being manhandled that way by a woman. Even more intriguing was the emotional repercussions of that manhandling occurring at the hands of a woman who looked exactly like the only one he'd ever loved.

He deserved to be punished for the things he'd done to her, deserved everything she threw at him from beyond the grave, and maybe it was foolish, but he swore to himself her sister's coming to Riften was just that—a sign from Anariel that in some way she was still with him. She would make sure he never forgot for as long as he lived.

Stuffing the last of his magicka potions and the book he'd been reading into his satchel, he slung it over his shoulder and reached for the Staff of Hag's Wrath to carry with him. He took a long look around his empty room at the Bee & Barb. Every time he left on a job, it never failed to rumble in the back of his mind that it could very well be the last time he ever laid eyes on the room he'd called home for more than five years. Not that he should miss it, but he would nonetheless.

Keerava would probably rent it out to someone else while he was gone; she always did.

He stopped on the way out to say goodbye and leave his key with Keerava, and stepped back out into the murky daylight. He spied Mjoll and Aerin chatting amicably with Marise in front of the empty kiosk where Brynjolf often peddled snake oil, and he offered a smile when the Lioness lifted her hand in farewell.

"Safe travels to you, my friend," she called.

Riften may have been a dive, according to most of its residents, and though he'd struggled with the notion of it for years, it was still home. He'd grown comfortable there, loved the people, the rugged, homey structures, the feel of the wooden pier beneath his feet as he traveled her streets. Bypassing Haelga's bunkhouse, which had brought him more comfort than he would ever admit and arriving in front of Honeyside, he lifted a tentative hand to knock on the door and silently prayed that Brynjolf hadn't returned home yet.

Another confrontation with Ginna's brutish Nord spouse was the last thing he needed to send him off on what might be his final farewell.

He remembered Ginna was supposed to have left that morning with her husband on some job she couldn't share the details of, but he hoped Brynjolf's presence in the cemetery less than an hour earlier meant she hadn't gone yet and that he was still underground. She'd been a good friend to him over the last couple of months, one of the better friends he'd had in years, and though he couldn't even begin to understand why he felt so compelled to say goodbye to her, he had a feeling he'd regret it for the rest of his days if he didn't.

"Wow, Marc," he muttered to himself, raising his knuckles to knock again. "Bleak much?"

The door opened and she leaned into the frame, the disheveled braids of her white-gold hair and the pillow lines embedded in her smooth cheeks suggested he'd woke her and a momentary surge of guilt gripped him. He was always doing things like that, annoying things, as Ginna bluntly classified them. Things that made it hard for other people to like him. And yet she liked him anyway. She'd even called him friend.

"Marcurio." He watched the edge of her mouth twitch with a small smile.

"I'm sorry, did I wake you?"

"Yeah, but it's all right. I have a million things to do today and I never meant to sleep this late." She stepped aside to silently invite him in with a sweeping arm. "Bryn and I were up until long after the sun came up this morning talking. He was supposed to wake me when he got up, but he never does what I ask him to. It's like he purposely goes out of his way to do the exact opposite of everything I say."

Marcurio chuckled, sliding in past her and taking a long look around the house. It never failed to surprise him how homey it still felt, how even the presence of another couple with different tastes in décor—most of which was quite obviously stolen—couldn't wrench Anariel's spirit from the walls of that dwelling. For a moment, while Ginna closed the door at his back, he closed his eyes and breathed in. It was probably just the alchemy lab downstairs, but he swore he could still smell her there. Lavender, honeycomb, tundra cotton.

"It's like being married to a… I don't know what. A rebellious teenage boy who thrives on making me growl at him."

Funny she should say that because that was exactly what he thought of Brynjolf, and that was putting it mildly. The man was a childish bully and it was impossible to fathom what she even saw in him. And yet Anariel had forgiven all of _his_ quirks—loving him without thought or question just the way he was.

He hadn't deserved her anymore than Brynjolf deserved Ginna.

"You obviously love him very much to put up with him."

An almost dreamy breath escaped her as she admitted, "I do love that hot-headed Nord. I don't know what it is about him, but sometimes just a look from him is enough to set my soul on fire."

"Does he make you happy?"

"When he's not driving me up the wall," she laughed. "Well, I guess even then he makes me happy."

"In the end, I guess that's all that matters."

"Yeah," she agreed, and when he turned back around to face her she was grinning in such a way he actually felt like maybe she was with the right man. Everyone had a soul mate, or so some of Mara's prophets liked to tout. Too bad he'd put a wooden stake through the heart of his. "So, what's up with you? You okay? You seemed a little off when you left here yesterday."

"I'm okay." As okay as a man who'd just had his life threatened by the spitting image of the only woman who'd ever gotten under his skin so deep he couldn't have dug her out with the tip of a blade if he tried. "Weird things going on up in my head, but I'll be all right. I always am."

"What kind of weird things? You wanna talk about it?"

"No," he shook his head. "I just wanted to stop by and say goodbye, and of course, let you know when your rebellious teenage bully of a husband comes barreling through the door asking for permission to have me crucified that it wasn't my fault."

Ginna's soft laughter lightened the air in the room. "Okay," she nodded. "I've pretty much come to the conclusion that if Brynjolf wants to kill you, it must be Middas."

"We had a bit of a confrontation this afternoon, and I got a little…" He paused, looking for the right words to explain the compelling nature to protect a stranger who looked so much like Anariel he couldn't breathe at the thought of losing her all over again. Even though he knew it wasn't her, he just couldn't stomach allowing anyone else to hurt her ever again. "Well, let's just say I demonstrated my formidable power and he wound up on his backside staring up at the sky."

"What?" she balked. "What happened?"

"I don't know. It's a long story and I don't really have time to explain. I'm leaving Riften for awhile."

"Marcurio, don't be stupid," she rolled her eyes. "Don't leave town because of Brynjolf. I can talk to him, keep him on a leash until he calms down. Besides, we are heading over to Solitude tomorrow, so that'll put some space between you."

"I'm not leaving town because of Brynjolf, don't worry. I have a job, and from the sounds of things it's a pretty dangerous job. There's no telling when I'll be back, if I even come back at all, so I wanted to make sure I said goodbye."

"A dangerous job?"

He watched concern furrow her smooth forehead, her exotic blue eyes narrowing with worry. For a moment she was all Nord, the hint of Imperial blood in her veins barely noticeable at all in any of her features. When she'd first come to Skyrim, the gentle olive tone of her skin had been the only real indication there was Imperial blood in her at all, but all that time in the cold and shadows had made her pale as fine porcelain. She really was a beautiful woman; Brynjolf probably had no idea how lucky he really was.

"What kind of dangerous job?"

"I can't really talk about it," he explained. "But I wanted to let you know I was heading out."

"Well, where are you going?"

"Dawnstar." It was really all he could say. Maramal didn't want the details of Vaermina's curse spreading any further than it already had, and who could blame the man. People tended to panic when a Daedric Prince caused trouble like that, a widespread fear trickling through the land that another Oblivion Crisis was on the rise.

"Does this have anything to do with all those rumors? The nightmares up there driving everyone mad?"

"Really, Ginna, I can't say anymore. Just… if I'm not back in a couple of months, I'm probably not coming back at all. I've already left word with Jarl Laila's steward to ensure that what little I have to my name goes to you in the event of my death. And I've requested for my remains to be returned to Riften. I don't have anyone else here, no other friends really, no family. Would you see that I'm buried in the cemetery behind the Hall of the Dead? Beside Anariel?"

"Marcurio!" She said his name with more emotion than he'd expected from her. Ginna wasn't exactly forthcoming with her feelings, and though they'd definitely built a friendship he would always treasure, he knew in his heart that she would probably never care for him even half as much as he did for her. Another lesson from Anariel: _treasure every soul that touches your life_. "This all sounds so serious. I don't like it."

He pursed his lips together, half-nodding in agreement. "I don't like it much either, but work is work and it's gonna pay well. Besides, I've got to get out of this place for a while. Don't worry about me. I'll be fine."

"Don't worry about you? You just told me you put your affairs in order and asked me to bury you behind the Hall of the Dead and you tell me not to worry about you? Eight Divines, Marcurio!" He was surprised when her balled fists rushed into his chest, knocking him unexpectedly back a few steps. "What am I supposed to think, if not the worst?"

"Come on," he mustered a playful grin that didn't go deeper than the surface. "You know better than anyone I can handle myself." After a moment's silence, during which she obviously didn't know what to say, he asked, "So, will you do it?"

Ginna closed her eyes and turned her head away from him, the full buds of her soft mouth so tight all the color seemed to drain from them until the whole of her face became a pale mask of hidden emotion. "In the event that you don't return, I will bury you next to Anariel in the cemetery behind the Hall of the Dead."

"Thank you."

"You better be leaving me a bunch of really good stuff when you die." The playful banter that flashed in her eyes spoke more of her feelings for him than any words she'd ever said to him in the time they'd been friends. "I like shiny things, you know that."

"Oh, you get all the good stuff. All my diamonds, the millions of Septims I've hoarded away through the years, my manor just north of Windhelm."

"Fantastic!"

"Well, I should get going."

She embraced him, a warm hug that called into question everything he thought he knew about her. Maybe it was living with that hot-headed husband of hers, who so obviously felt everything around him with every fiber of his being, but if he didn't know any better he'd think she was actually opening up to the notion of giving her heart to the people around her.

He took one last look around Honeyside before he finally parted ways with Ginna, wanting to get out of Riften, and her house before Brynjolf came home and found him there. He wondered, as he stepped through the front gates and sauntered toward the stables to retrieve his horse, if he would run into Anariel's sister again on the road, or perhaps in Dawnstar when he arrived. It was hard to say, and even harder to fathom why in the world he'd actually want to see a woman who reminded him so much of the darkest time in his life it made his soul shudder.

But he did want to see her again, to know her in ways he'd never allowed himself to know Anariel.

It would have seemed crazy to anyone else had he spoken it out loud, but Marcurio really felt like the Gods were giving him some kind of second chance.

"This time, I'll do it right," he promised himself, stepping into the stirrup and hoisting himself into the saddle.


End file.
